


Septon Valentine's Day

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, King's Landing, Magic, Soul Bond, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9720353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: Tumblr prompt: Sansa is excited to celebrate Septon Valentine's Day, which promises a chance for freedom. After she notices that no one gives the Hound a gift during the Septon Valentine’s Day feast, she makes him a present and gives it to him later that day, when he escorts her to her rooms.This takes place after the battle of Blackwater, in an a/u where Sandor Clegane did not desert, and before the purple wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa straightened her back, smiling at her reflection. The childish roundness in her face had all but vanished, producing an angular jawline and sculpted, fine cheekbones. After her bath, Shae had brushed her thick auburn hair until it gleamed and then rolled the front while leaving the curled length down her back.  The ice compress and rice powder Shae had carefully applied successfully hid the swelling on the side of her face.

"You are very beautiful, my lady," the Lorathi handmaid said when she finished tying the lacings on her new frock.

The yellow silk gown Margaery gifted her for the Septon Valentine’s Day feast draped over her shape, accentuating the budding curves and swells of her body. She looked like a woman grown. She _felt_ like a woman grown.

Next to Sevenmas, Septon Valentine’s Day was her favorite holiday, one that promised gifts and celebrated romance. The story of the old septon was a childhood favorite:  the holy man risking his life to secretly wed highborns in love with those of lower birth, those whose families would never approve. A happy sigh escaped her lips.

"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. "Oh, I am."

“I'm certain your future husband will be delighted with you, whoever he turns out to be.” Shae stated flatly and raised her brows.

In truth Sansa had been surprised by the gift as well as the invitation to the feast, and her first reaction had been suspicion and dread. Ever since Joffrey threw her over, she had been persona non grata at court.

But the future queen had reassured her that she was to meet her betrothed at the feast, and that Joffrey had made her an excellent match, and that it was only right that a highborn girl wear and new gown to meet her future lord. Even after she explained this to her maid, the woman still seemed suspicious.

"Who do _you_ think it is, my lady?"

Shrugging, Sansa focused on her sash and remained silent. She just knew the man in question had to be Willas Tyrell, for over the past year, she and Margaery had discussed the possibility of her wedding him and moving to Highgarden.

“Willas has a bad leg but a good heart,” Margaery confided one morning when they broke their fast. “He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars.”

“How wonderful!” Sansa had gushed. “My brothers never did anything half so gallant.”

From the corner of Margaery’s solar, Sansa remembered the Hound’s sardonic snort had both annoyed her and brought her back to reality. She had known just what he was thinking, but she was certain his doglike instincts were wrong about the Tyrells.

Judging by Shae's questioning gaze, Sansa knew that her maid shared the Hound's skepticism.

 _Even if it is Winterfell Willas wants and not me, he still may come to love me for myself_. Sansa hugged herself tightly, the girl both thrilled and frightened by the prospect.

 _This may be the last Septon Valentine’s Day feast that I celebrate in this horrible Red Keep_. That thought alone returned her good cheer. Lifting her head, she set her jaw and stared at the image of the woman before her. Whatever happened today, she refused to allow Joffrey’s unpredictability or the doubts of Shae and the Hound spoil her mood.

Loud rapping on the solar door shook her out of her reverie. Such a noise could only be made by one person in the Red Keep.

“That’ll be the Hound,” Shae shook her head. “Do you have your gift ready for your secret Valentine?”

“Oh yes, right here.” Sansa smiled and held up the carefully wrapped box in her hand. She hoped it was something Willas would like.

Shae opened the door just as Sansa smoothed down her skirts one last time.

The heavily muscled warrior ducked inside, his eyes wandered over her form before settling on the gift in her hands.

“Come, girl,” the Hound rasped, his expression as impassive as his voice, “you mustn’t keep the king waiting.”

The Hound stood clenching his jaw, his fist tightening around the hilt of his weapon as Sansa took his left arm. She had meant it as a friendly gesture, but the scarred man’s forearm stiffened under her fingers.

“You don’t have to do that, little bird. I’m not one of those buggering knights you love so well.” He started to remove her hand, the gentleness of his gesture startling her.

 _He’s in one of his brooding moods._ Sansa felt the knot in her stomach tighten _. He doesn’t smell of wine, though. He isn’t drunk. He’s always worse when he’s drunk._

“I know you are no knight, but you saved me just the same.” She tightened her hold on him. "And I am relieved Joffrey didn't send one of his _knights_ to fetch me."

His mouth twitched, his eyes glimpsing her swollen cheek; still, he remained taciturn.

Sansa swallowed hard. “Let us only speak of pleasant things on this Septon Valentine’s Day, shall we?”

“So the little bird wants to practice her charms on an old dog.” He smirked at her. “I don’t give a shit about some stupid septon, girl, or his buggering holiday.”

“Why are you always so hateful? I was just being friendly.” For some reason, his words stung her pride.

The Hound raised his good eyebrow at her. His eyes fell once more the gift in her hand, a taunting snort escaping his lips, now cruelly curled into a mockery of a smile.

“That fancy box for some equally pretty lordling?”

 _Well at least he’s trying to make small talk._ She sighed inwardly. _This may be the best I can get out of him today._

“Actually, I’m not sure who is to receive it,” Sansa offered him a shy smile despite her growing annoyance. “It is to be a surprise.”

The yellow diaphanous gown billowed around her slippered feet as she hurried to meet his long stride.The man chuckled darkly and then abruptly stopped, causing Sansa to stumble over her skirts in her haste.

Swiftly, the heavily muscled Hound caught her and set her upright, but he didn’t remove his hands from her waist.

“Remember what I told you about the king." He hissed low. "He wants you to fear him, so you best be careful giving that gift to another man today.”

“But he’s betrothed to Margaery now,” Sansa frowned.

“He still views you as his, regardless of that agreement he made with the Tyrells.” The Hound leaned in closer. “Watch yourself, girl.”

Despite her training, Sansa discovered she didn’t oppose his possessive gesture, a fact which left her perplexed. _Once he sees that I will heed his words, he’ll turn me loose_. _I’ll ignore his familiarity for now._

“Thank you, I will.” She smiled nonchalantly. “As I was saying, it is to be a surprise.” Ever so slightly, Sansa inclined herself toward him.

“More of a surprise than you’ll fancy, I’ll wager.” The Hound’s steely eyes bored into her own while his long fingers flexed against the gauzy bodice of her gown.

She gaped at him. The anger simmering in his gaze made her pulse quicken. _What could he mean?_

“Aren't you going to tell the old dog who the little bird would like it to be?” The Hound barked after she remained silent.

“It makes me no matter.” She replied with feigned indifference, though the intimacy of his large hands gently squeezing her middle nearly stole her breath. “Mayhap one of the Tyrell brothers. The king couldn't possibly be angered by a gift given to one of his good brothers.”

“Unlikely, that the king wouldn't be jealous of any man you favored.” The Hound tightened his grip and gritted his teeth.

Disappointment rushed through her core, bringing stinging tears to her eyes.

 _The Hound never lies to me. He never has and he has no reason to do so now. He is the only one who speaks the truth to me in this god’s forsaken place. He saved me from the mob and looks out for me, even when he isn't on duty. He knows something and he’s trying to prepare me for it._  

 _Is Margaery part of some cruel joke from Joffrey is playing at my expense?_ That seemed highly unlikely; still, why had she insisted on giving her a new gown?

As Sansa mulled over his words, she recalled that the Hound was still staring at her, his large hands sliding down to rest at her hips.  _His hands span the entirety of my waist and stomach._  It made her feel warm and comforted.

Straightening her back, Sansa tried to indicate she was about to move along but the huge man only tightened his grip. Heat flooded her cheeks.

 _If not Willas Tyrell, then who was to be her sweetheart?_ A heavy dread settled in her stomach. She just had to know.

“You are much mistaken, _ser_.” Sansa challenged him. “Margaery told me just the other day that her brothers-“

“The flower knight has gone north with the married second son.” The Hound rudely cut her off and yanked her closer. “The cripple elder has never been to King’s Landing, least not since I’ve been here.” His scarred mouth twitched once more as he regarded her, his eyes roaming over her gown. “You think the little Highgarden bitch was going to tell you that, girl? She has no say what her brothers do; she does as her grandmother bids. And that rancid queen of thorns wants Winterfell for her grandson, that's why they both put ideas in your pretty little head.”

"She does?"

"Aye." He laughed harshly and cruelly pinched the material of her gown between his fingers. “But wanting isn't getting. I thought you’d learned better than that.”

 _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face_. Instinctively Sansa knew he was telling the truth, and it annoyed her to no end that after all the time she had spent in the Red Keep, she still needed him to point such things out on occasion. 

Crestfallen, Sansa thought of the hours she had spent embroidering the silk green handkerchief with yellow roses held within it. The carefully wrapped box in her hand seemed nothing more than a foolish token now. 

“You taught me better than that, it’s true.” Sansa swallowed hard. "I thank you for it. Have you nothing else to tell me?”

Gritting his teeth, the Hound frowned at her and shook his head. Despite his previous openness, he seemed loath to tell her the identity of the man who was to be her Valentine.

Choking back bitter tears, the young woman defiantly jutted out her chin and smoothed her hand over her bodice until her hand brushed against his hot, calloused skin. If he wasn't going to tell her, then she was through with being held by him.

“Let me loose.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The Hound quickly snatched his hands away but to her surprise, he didn’t laugh at her or goad her further, the anger in his eyes now softening into an emotion Sansa could only define as sadness.

“Let us continue on. I don’t want to give the king a reason to punish me.” She spoke hastily, the girl fearful that the longer they delayed, the more likely she would lose her composure. “We’re going to be late for the feast as it is.” Sansa returned her hand to his forearm, digging her nails into his skin a little more than necessary. "I thought Joffrey would send someone a bit earlier."

“Be glad he didn't. The little shit will be pissed by now, girl.” The Hound chuckled darkly, and Sansa couldn't hold back the giggle escape her lips.

"I hope so. It might go easier for both of us."

“So the little bird has grown claws, has she?" The Hound grinned at her. "Well bloody good for you. You’re going to need them.”

“I’m a wolf, and no more a bird than you,” Sansa answered decidedly. “A wolf and a hound among lions, you and I."

“A wolf in the yellow autumn grass.” Sandor Clegane muttered to himself.

As she looked him over, Sansa noticed the Hound was wearing a black tunic and leather jerkin in favor of his usual armor. A long green cloak fastened by a jeweled clasp adorned his throat. His muscled chest and arms seemed to strain and pull at his clothing. Somehow, he appeared even more intimidating in his dress clothes.

“I see you are dressed up, too.” Sansa nudged him, the girl trying to lighten the mood. "You'll have a sweetheart of your own waiting for you, I'll wager."

"I fuck whores, I don't have sweethearts, little bird." He stopped mid stride and gripped her chin with his fingers. “No woman wants a scarred old hound, much less give him gifts, girl.  And men don't give whores gifts; not the smart ones, anyway.”

Speechless and deeply saddened, Sansa couldn’t resist squeezing his arm sympathetically.

 _He always chided me for my love for fairy tales and no wonder; his li_ _fe has been devoid of so many good things._   Finally, she found the courage to meet his eyes and whispered, “Well, a little bird will look you straight in the face. You seemed to want that, once before, from me." Sansa fiddled with her sash nervously. "I will do so willingly, even gladly."

The Hound's eyes softened. He started to speak, then stopped abruptly.

Encouraged, Sansa continued: "That and a song. I remember you wanted a song.  I-I could give you a song, later, if you like.”

He swallowed thickly as he regarded her and then gruffly turned away, forcing her to let go of his arm.

“Enough with your chirping, little bird,” he rasped low and opened the leaved doors to the banquet hall. “Come now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Crimson and ivory silk streamers floated above the pavilion of the nobles. Singers moved through the throngs, accepting requests for famous love songs. The heady scent of roasted swan, pigeon pie, onion tartlets and honeyed plum wine perfumed the air.

 The Hound guided her through the crowd by the arm. Spotting a tray of lemon cakes, Sansa’s stomach grumbled, reminding her that she had skipped the morning meal. She heard him chuckle beside her, much to her chagrin.

Contortionists embraced in amorous poses lined the burgundy walkway to the royal dais. One of the performers caught her eye and leered at her as he thrust his hips toward his partner. Sansa recoiled, her cheeks flushing at his vulgar display. The mummer made to follow her, but the Hound situated his powerful body between her and faced the man.

“Out of Lady Sansa’s way, fool.” He drew his fighting knife. “If I catch you looking at her like you want to fuck her one more time, I’ll gut you right where you stand.”

Shuddering, the man slinked off.

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered, smoothing down her skirts.

The Hound merely grunted in reply.

Joffrey and Margaery sat on the rose covered dais atop the steps that fronted the broad way of the marble plaza. The king swayed as he rose to his feet when they approached.

“Dog, enough fucking around with the wolf bitch. Bring her to me.”

The Hound tipped his head toward his liege. Sansa did likewise.

"Forgive my tardiness, your Grace; it was my fault, for I detained the Hound while deciding which slippers to wear with my new gown. I wanted to look my best, you see." Sansa effortlessly let the lie slip off her tongue, then grinned stupidly and glanced between the king and his betrothed.

Huffing, Joffrey reluctantly accepted her fabrication; but the mercenary glint in the king’s eyes still filled her with dread.

"Approach, the both of you."

Margaery shifted in her seat, an uneasy smile ghosting her lips. Beside her sat Olenna Tyrell, who seemed to watch everything and nothing as she nonchalantly took in the scene.

Tyrion Lannister and his sellsword turned toward Sansa and the Hound. Sansa nodded politely to him and continued moving toward the king.

“Good girl,” the Hound rasped in her ear before moving to the king’s side. “Sing your songs to the king. Pretend you fear him.”

“I needn't pretend; I _do_ fear him.” Sansa muttered. _But I do not fear you, for all of your blustering_. She bit her tongue to suppress her ire.

Raising his brow, the Hound snorted. “Sell your lies elsewhere. You fear what the king will do, girl, but not the boy himself.”

Irritated, Sansa began to protest but Clegane cut her off.

“I _saw_ you, little bird," he spat, "I stopped you that day, remember? I _know_ you’re a wolf in disguise. You would have killed him that day, and mayhap will yet, if given the chance.”

Vexed, Sansa shot him a withering look as soon as Margaery turned away.

“I am loyal to my _beloved_ Joffrey.” The young woman muttered and bowed into a deep curtsey, spreading the skirts of her gown into a wide circle around her.

The Hound bowed after her, his lank hair hiding his facial expression from Sansa's view. However, she could hear his mocking laugh; the sound reminded Sansa of the grating of steel against stone.

But Joffrey, true to the Hound’s word, was quite drunk – too drunk to pay attention to their exchange. If Margaery noticed, she didn't let on.

"Lady Sansa," she called, "I'm so pleased you came. Be welcome."

Sansa knelt at the feet of her future queen. The Hound soundlessly took his place beside Joffrey.

"You do me great honor, Your Grace."

"I knew you would enjoy it." Margaery looped her arm through Joffrey, who then jerked away from her.

“I thank you, my lady, for thinking of me,” Sansa smiled, her guarded eyes following Joffrey as she spoke.

Annoyed, the king flopped back onto his seat and carelessly threw his leg over the arm of his chair.

His greatfather and the queen next approached, the pair flanking the young couple as they took their respective positions.

Sansa curtseyed to them while warily watching Joffrey greedily drain his goblet out of the corner of her eye.

“Uncle, I needs more wine.” The king sneered at Tyrion and banged his goblet on the corner of his chair.

Tywin Lannister motioned for his son to obey.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa – you really are too stupid for words, just as Mother says.”

He pointed at his mother. “First you arrive late to the feast for the reason that you could not choose slippers, and now _this._ Only one as daft as you would dare bring an offering to the Septon Valentine’s feast, let alone expect one in return.”

Huffing, Tyrion leaned forward and filled his cup. It was the second time that day that Sansa noticed he wanted to speak to her and held his tongue.

Cersei sneered at her son and then her brother.

“Forgive me, but I expect nothing, my lord.” Sansa made a show of fingering the yellow bow. _Tell me who my betrothed is and be satisfied, Joffrey._

The Hound cleared his throat.

“Who is to be the recipient of your pitiful gift?” The king waved her to come forward. “Who wants it?” He called out to the crowd. “Come now, don’t be shy.”

A nervous tittering moved through the guests. No one came forward, a fact that both unnerved and relieved Sansa as she glanced about. 

“You’re a _traitor_ ,” Joffrey stopped pacing and hissed in her face. “Who do you imagine would even want it?”

Joffrey turned sharply toward the Hound and sniggered. “Dog, do _you_ want it?”

Anxiety fluttered in Sansa's belly as she glimpsed between them.

“It’s not a matter of wanting, your Grace. It’s far too fine a gift for a dog,” the sworn shield answered gravely. He did not sound as if he cared one whit if the king believed him.

“Well said, Clegane.” Lord Tywin answered mildly. “A lady does not feed a dog at her table.”

“No indeed, my lord,” Sansa replied, “but I am a Stark, and the direwolf is my sigil. Forgive me, but I have seen that dogs and wolves often run together and so I do not see the difficulty in the matter.”

Tywin chuckled under his breath. “The wisdom of a girl.”

Margaery miserably pushed her food around her plate, avoiding Sansa's eyes in the process. The Tyrell brothers were nowhere to be seen, just as the Hound had claimed, Sansa noted with growing irritation.

 _The Hound – Sandor Clegane – admitted to the king – the king! - that he thought my gift a fine one. That was most unexpected. And Margaery, she knew I was not meant for her brothers.  Why did she even bother with me?_ _Soon, you and Willas will wed, Margaery had promised. When you come to Highgarden, after Joffrey and I are wed. My grandmother will take you._ _Lies, all lies._ Sansa bit her lip. _Why did she lead me on?_

“For the love of the Seven, I don’t see the harm in the Hound accepting it, child,” Lady Olenna interrupted Sansa's thoughts. “The girl does beautiful work and the Hound needs every bit of help he can get with that face.”

Stung, Sansa turned and glared at the old woman.

“All this fuss over a trifle!” The aptly named queen of thorns went on. “Why should the king entertain such frivolity on a day when he should be paying attention to his betrothed?”

"Greatmother," Margaery finally said, "mind your words, or what will Sansa think of us?"

 _You are both false, and your loyalty fades as quickly as that stupid golden rose of your sigil. Only yesterday I wanted Willas and Highgarden,_ Sansa bit her lip, _but now I want this mummer’s farce to be over and done. I want the truth._

Her eyes fell on Sandor Clegane, the man shifting uneasily on his feet. _He must feel so ashamed, to be made party to this._

Deep within her heart, Sansa longed to escape everyone but the Hound, the only person who never lied to her. She would run away with him, if he asked; but she knew he would not, and such a thing was an utter impossibility.

 _Mother, help me_. _And help the Hound._

Drawing a deep breath, Sansa collected herself and forced her lips into a demure smile.

“You honor me, my lords; my lady.” The young woman curtseyed again. “But my humble offering is for Lady Margaery…”

Lord Tywin nodded genially to Sansa while his grandson ripped apart the wrapping and then lifted the handkerchief.

“Fine?" Joffrey laughed cruelly, ignoring her. "You call _this_ fine, dog? What an exceptional jest!”

Clegane shrugged disinterestedly, but Sansa noticed the vein in his forehead protruding as he did so.

Cersei laughed at her son’s antics, while his grandfather glowered at him.

“That is to say…I know she is your sweetheart, my lord, and that I am not fit to serve as one." Sansa meekly lowered her eyes. "I meant no disrespect to you. My only wish is that Lady Margaery feel welcome, being so far from home as she is,” Sansa explained. "I thought a small reminder of her family seat, one that she could keep on her person, would be most appropriate.”

Lady Olenna pointedly glanced at Margaery, whose warm brown eyes brimmed with tears as Sansa spoke.

 _You should cry for misleading me so and playing false with me,_ Sansa inwardly seethed, _both of you_.

“Did you?” Joffrey sneered as he tossed it toward the Hound, deliberately falling short so that it landed on the floor. “You know what I think, Lady Sansa?" He clapped his hands together. "I think your so called gift should serve as a bone for my dog - one of _many_ you will provide for him. What say you to that?”

Everyone laughed at Sansa’s confusion.

The Hound’s jaw twitched, his face unreadable but for the blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

Tears threatened her eyes as she shared his humiliation.

“It pleases me to please _you_ , my king.” Sansa picked up the discarded handkerchief. After she meticulously folded and smoothed it, she then presented it to the Hound.

"Once you gave me one of your handkerchiefs, my lord, and now I give you one of my own. I am certain the king has given you far finer things. I hope you accept my humble offering and use it in good health.”

The Hound’s steely eyes met her own. She smiled cautiously at him.

“I'm no lord, no more than I'm a knight, Lady Sansa,” he rasped low, his fingers tracing the embroidered rose carefully. “Many thanks.” He carefully placed it inside his jerkin.

The crowd murmured approvingly around them.

Sansa quietly held the Hound’s gaze. _Mother, gentle the rage inside him._

His eyes softened as he regarded her. She smiled brightly and offered her hand to him.

“So Sansa, you like my dog grateful, do you?” Joffrey cackled as he stepped between them, ruining the moment. “Just wait until I give you _my_ surprise! He will be most grateful indeed!”

The Hound's face fell.


	3. Chapter 3

An outcry erupted from the gathering. Margaery dabbed her eyes as Joffrey led her off the dais toward Sansa. Anxiously she smoothed down the front of the beautiful yellow gown as she waited for the pair to address her. 

 _Margaery deliberately gifted me a gown of yellow silk, the same color as the autumn grass where the three dogs of House Clegane gave their lives protecting their liege lord._ Ire rose within her. Sansa glared one last time at her former friend before turning her eyes toward the king. 

“Your bastard brother will shit himself when he finds out who your lord husband is, Sansa!” He laughed, and Cersei laughed with him. 

 _Lord husband? He speaks as though we are already wed and yet I don’t even know the identity of the man._ The crowd around her all laughed heartily. Sansa felt ashamed. 

Unable to face them any longer, she numbly looked to her left; her vision falling on Prince Oberyn’s paramour. She was not traditionally beautiful, but something about her held the eye. Her kohl rimmed eyes reflected the same fear Sansa had seen in Lady and Nymeria's prey in the Wolfswood back home. 

Underneath the table, Sansa noticed that she then took hold of her lover’s hand and squeezed it. The Red Viper stayed trained on his lady, one hand resting on his dagger as the other stroked her hand. He turned then and nodded toward Sansa, the rage in his dark eyes dissipating as quickly as it had flared, transforming into a deep empathy evident to everyone around him. 

Terror gripped Sansa’s throat as she struggled to maintain her decorum. _It must be to the elder – the elder always weds first. Please, Mother, please I beg you, don’t let it be Gregor. It would be like Joffrey to wed me to him, especially after Elia Martell’s fate. That’s why the prince and his paramour are staring in such a way!_  

Her world began to spin as she contemplated her fate. Bile bubbled up in Sansa’s throat, threatening to make her ill. Frantically she glanced about, but the elder, Ser Gregor, was not present. 

A wicked grin spread across Joffrey’s face, the king enjoying her alarm. Beside him, Lord Tywin steepled his fingers as he studied her. “Enough, your Grace. Get on with it.”

 _No, the king didn’t mean Gregor: he hasn’t been in the capital since losing the Tourney of the Hand. The Hound had protected Ser Loras, and took the purse that day, as well as the heart of the people._ The thought brought a small smile to her face. _Joffrey must mean the Hound, for he was the Queen Regent’s shield long before Joffrey.  He wants to frighten me in front of everyone._ _Lord Tywin would never hand over his favorite pet to his grandson to punish me; the Lannisters need him to fight against Robb’s men._  

Heartened, Sansa focused on Sandor Clegane. Surprisingly, she was not as appalled by the match as she knew she should be. He was not a handsome man, true, and even if he wasn’t scarred, he would be average at best. The Hound seemed to feel her watching him. His eyes were cast downward, his face drained of all color but for the scarring on his right. _He is as humiliated as I am; possibly even more._ For a moment, she empathized with him, an emotion she had not felt since the Blackwater burned. _In this we are the same._

“Sansa?” Joffrey snapped his fingers in front of her face and disturbing her reverie. “Won’t you ask me which one of the Cleganes I have wed you to?” 

A deep shiver coursed through her veins but Sansa forced it away. _He wants to draw this out and so I will let him. The longer Cersei and Joffrey wait, the angrier they'll become, and anger makes them stupid_. Sansa closed her eyes. 

 _The old gods and the new, work with the Stranger, I pray, and take Gregor Clegane and soon. He has done so much wickedness. And please take Joffrey too, for he killed my father, mother and brother. Mother, save the Hound if you can, and gentle the rage inside him. Please, gods, save us both._  

When Sansa opened her eyes, she noticed Joffrey’s mouth pulled into a tight line. 

“Well? Don’t keep everyone waiting, you stupid girl! And your prayers will not save you!”   

“Oh look! The pie!” Margaery led him back to his seat and refilled his goblet. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tyrion and Bronn both smirking at the Tyrell girl’s attempts to control her fiancé. 

Sansa did not care, nor did she return their smiles; for all she cared, the whole lot could choke on the ridiculous pigeon pie now towering over them. 

Before her father died, he reassured her that he would be able to answer her prayers in the afterlife, and that her greatfather had done the same for him. _One day you will be connected to your destined mate in a similar fashion as well. It is the way of the old gods; it is the way of the kings of winter,_ he had whispered as he held her close. 

“Father, I know you can hear me,” Sansa breathed, “Father, help me.” 

Suddenly the chattering of the crowd faded into the background, as a masculine voice, low and rasping, susurrated in her mind. She focused on the sound, trying to discern it. 

 _He wants you to fear him, Little bird, so give him what he wants._  

Stunned, Sansa gasped. _The Hound? Sandor Clegane? Is that you I hear in my mind?_  

The Hound’s lip twitched as he met her eyes. _Do as you’re bid. We’ll speak of this later._  

 _I may be a little bird but make no mistake: I was born a direwolf, the blood of Winterfell._ Sansa silently replied. _The old gods hear my prayers, whether you believe in them or not._

_I do, lass; I do._

Sansa had a feeling that the only reason he said that was to ensure she would acquiesce to his wishes.

“I am excited to learn of the match you have made for me, your Grace,” the young woman announced with a smile. “Please, do tell.” Sansa made her voice small. “I do not see Ser Gregor among us.” 

“No, and you wouldn’t, for he is at Harrenhal.” Lord Tywin answered, drumming the tips of his fingers on the table as he spoke. 

“You have-you would not give me to your fierce sworn shield?” Her lower lip trembled. 

Next to the king, Sandor averted his eyes and shifted on his feet. 

The sadistic gleam returned to the king’s eyes as he watched his sworn shield and the woman he had thrown over nervously look each other over. Sansa allowed her smile to waver and then bit the inside of her cheek to summon tears to complete the mummer’s farce. 

“As a matter of fact, I have given you to the Hound.” Joffrey leaned in toward her. “What say you to that?” 

“Oh!” She raised her hand to her mouth as the Hound reached for her arm. “But how will you fare without him?” 

Tywin scoffed. “The very idea has the girl scared witless.  I have a better idea to reward the Hound, your Grace.” 

“Better than Ned Stark’s bitch daughter?” The king asked incredulously. “Dog, take your wife and get out of my sight.” 

Lord Tywin rose from his seat. “What do you mean by this?” 

“A jest, Father. Joffrey did not mean it. It is only a bit of holiday sport.” Cersei reached for her son’s arm but the king jerked away from her. 

“You _approved_ this match?” Lord Tywin glowered at his daughter. 

Joffrey laughed then, long and low and mean, his enthusiasm growing with every moment. “I do not need your approval, grandfather, nor that of Mother! I am king and I award my dog with a wife far above his station. I am giving him _you_ , Sansa, a traitor!” 

Another murmur resounded amongst the throngs. 

“Of course not. You will not wed Sandor Clegane, little dove,” Cersei interrupted as she rose. “The king only meant for you to pass the night with the Hound.  In keeping with tradition, you were to make love offerings to Septon Valentine. It is an honor to a traitor such as yourself.” 

Biting her lip, Sansa nodded, her cheeks flushing at the idea. _They would use a holy rite to disgrace me._  

“Shut up, Mother!” Joffrey reeled and gripped the arms If his seat. His hand slipped on the sharp edge of the makeshift iron throne, slicing his palm. 

“My dog shall have you – all of you! And then the Stark bitch will learn what dogs do to wolves!” 

“Your will is my command, your Grace.” Sansa choked out as she knelt before him. “May I ask when?” 

“ _Now_ , you whiny simpleton! You are already wed!” 

The crowd muttered in confusion.

“This is the best part!” He went on. “Consider it a Septon Valentine’s Day surprise. The Hound taking your arm made it so.”

The Hound tightened his grip on Sansa but refused to look at her. She made no attempt to move away, so stunned was she.

Joffrey smirked, the young man oblivious to the growing discomfiture of his guests. He waved the newly anointed Septon forward. “We’ve already arranged it.” The young man cackled loudly, while the queen and Lord Tywin both moved toward him. The Septon, panicked, backed away. 

“The king is tired.” Lord Tywin announced. Cersei moved to take his arm once more. 

“I _am not_ tired!” Joffrey shrieked. “Sansa now belongs to the Hound and let that be an end to it.” 

“Easy, little bird,” the Hound rasped close to her ear. “Mind what you say.” He then bowed to the king. “I thank you, your Grace, for wedding me to her.  If you require nothing more from me, I’ll be off with her now.”

With a wicked laugh, the Hound jerked her around to face him, “We’re going to celebrate, you and me.” His fingers pinched her chin. 

Sansa wrenched away from him, hoping that it would be enough for Joffrey. 

It was; the king delightedly applauded and most of the guests followed suit – that is, everyone but Prince Oberyn and his paramour. His eyes stayed fixed on Sansa. 

“Clegane, I will have a word with you in my study before your nuptial celebrations begin.” Lord Tywin interrupted the merriment. “You are dismissed.” 

“As you wish, my lord.” The Hound bowed deeply, then took her by the arm and led her away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it?” Sansa whispered, her voice straining. “What is Lord Tywin planning?”
> 
> “Buggering Lannisters.”
> 
> Sandor’s fingers flexed around her arm but he abruptly fell silent. Following his line of sight, Sansa beheld Oberyn Martell and his lady approaching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I finally updated! Thank you to all my readers for your patience, I hope you still are enjoying this little story.
> 
> For deborahbrucie, I hope this cheers you up :D
> 
> A must give a shout out to Purpleann, whose wonderful Wolf Bonded fic inspired this chapter.

Sansa paced the rich velvet carpeting in the Hand’s solar. The only person she feared more than Joffrey was his grandfather. She could hear her lord husband’s harsh rasp through the heavy walnut door, followed by Tywin Lannister’s authoritative timbre. Pressing her ear to the door, Sansa strained to listen. Try as she might, the young woman could not decipher their words. The anxiety of waiting wore her nerves raw.

The door jerked open to a whirlwind of a very angry Sandor Clegane storming through the room. Sansa rushed to get out of his way.

“Little bird,” he growled through gritted teeth and waved her to him. “Come.” Sandor seemed out of breath. _What happened?_

Obediently Sansa hurried to his side and accepted the arm he offered as he guided her into the hall.

“What is it?” Sansa whispered, her voice straining. “What is he planning?”

“Buggering Lannisters.”

Sandor’s fingers flexed around her arm but he abruptly fell silent. Following his line of sight, Sansa beheld Oberyn Martell and his lady approaching them.

The prince was very handsome indeed, with smooth olive skin and warm brown eyes. The woman with him was not conventionally beautiful, but Sansa decided that there was something in her manner that certainly drew the eye.

Her rich brown hair gleamed in the sunlight, and her jewelry tinkled pleasantly as they drew near. Her dark eyes were heavily rimmed with gold and black kohl. Sansa had never seen a woman wear cosmetics and so she forced herself not to stare.

 _The serpent’s whore_ , Sansa blushed when she met her gaze, Olenna Tyrell’s harsh words returning to her at the most inopportune moment. Sansa wondered what Sandor thought of her. She glanced up at him, but his expression hardened further, and his eyes were unreadable as he regarded the pair.

 _Does he find her attractive? Is he trying to hide his desire for her?_ Her heart sunk into her stomach at the thought, though she could not for the life of her understand why. Dread eclipsed her disposition, for Sandor’s foul mood predicted peril for the prince and his woman, should he take offense to them.

Pulling her close, the Hound snarled a low warning. “Careful with that one.”

“Of course.” Sansa patted his arm. “Please, I do not wish for you to -”

“What now? You mean to muzzle me already, is that the way of it?” Sandor huffed in rage as he waited for her to speak.

“No, not at all. I just couldn’t bear for you to come to grief because of them.” Sansa rested her hand on his chest. “You must be calm, for both of our sakes.”

“I have no fucks to give over them, little bird,” he laughed low and mean, though the ire suddenly escaped his features. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I won’t risk Payne’s blade and leave you a widow over a tussle with some shite Dornishman, believe that.”

“Good.” 

His eyes darted up to her own.

“Do you mind me speaking with them?” 

He shook his head, though his fury filled gaze returned, fixed on the Red Viper.

Drawing a deep breath, Sansa made to move away from him. Heeding his warning, she expertly schooled her expression into one of tranquility.

Sandor did not prevent her from turning to greet the man, much to her relief. 

“Prince Oberyn,” Sansa dipped into a curtsey. “How good of you to celebrate Septon Valentine’s Day with us. You are the first member of House Martell to make my acquaintance.”

“Lady Sansa,” the prince’s lilting voice filled the hall. “The honor is mine. I would like a moment of your time, please.” Oberyn defiantly glowered at Sandor. “That is, if your _beloved groom_ can spare you.”

Nodding once, Sandor gripped the hilt of his broad sword, but he remained silent.

The prince merely chuckled under his breath.

_Oh Warrior, please still Sandor’s hand._

“I would be delighted, Prince Oberyn,” Sansa anxiously glanced between them. “Regretfully I haven’t been in a position to introduce myself before now. I’m afraid that I am no longer in the good graces of the king and therefore not favored with his company.”

“All the better for you, my lady.” The Red Viper bowed low. “I see that life in the south has not ruined your good nature.”

“You flatter me,” Sansa drew a deep breath. “Is my nature so well-known as to be spoken of in Dorne?”

“Princess Myrcella has often praised you at great length– both your beauty and kind nature.”

Sandor growled low in his throat once more.

 _I know, husband. I'm being careful._ She willed him to hear her thoughts.

“She is a dear girl.” Sansa smiled softly while ducking her eyes to hide her embarrassment. “I do miss her company. I'm sure she’s vastly contented in Sunspear with her betrothed.”

Sandor tightened his hold on her arm, forcing her to move to his right. _The Seven save me, he means to strike the prince down._

“Indeed,” Oberyn ignored Sandor altogether.

His heated gaze wandered over Sansa’s form in a most intimate manner before returning to her face, his demeanor carrying both danger and kindness. “She will be far more beautiful than her mother, and she is goodness itself. I can hardly reconcile that she is a Lannister.”

Sansa smiled politely.

“Trystane is fond of the game cyvasse, and Myrcella has learned the rules so they can play together. Myrcella wins more often than Trystane, but my nephew does not mind.”

“I am happy for her. Allow me to congratulate your family on the match.” Sansa squeezed Sandor’s arm. In response, he drew his hand over her own and pressed it into his forearm.

“And what of you, Lady Sansa?” Oberyn abruptly stopped and faced them. “Are you _happy_ here?” His lip curled as he turned his attention to Sandor. "Do not look at him, look at me."

“A wolf may live among lions, but they cannot change the nature of the wolf.” Sansa laughed lightly, struggling to hide her alarm as she did so. “And I am a direwolf, after all.”

Prince Oberyn smiled then, a genuine smile, showing straight rows of white teeth as he did so. His eyes then skimmed over the Hound, his look hardening as he did so.

“I can see that. You have this _dog_ quite at your mercy.”

“Not at all, Prince Oberyn, for dogs and wolves often run together in the north as equals.”

A deep unease settled in her belly. _What do they want from me?_ Swallowing down her nerves, Sansa next smiled expectantly at the woman beside the prince.

“If you would make the introductions, please, for have not had the pleasure, Prince Oberyn."

“Lady Sansa of House Stark, this is mine very own paramour, Ellaria Sand.” He bent and kissed the woman full on the mouth. The intimacy of the act left Sansa fighting to resist gaping at the couple.

She had heard the Dornish were passionate, and she supposed their behavior was to be expected, for Ellaria was baseborn and unwed and had borne two bastard daughters for the prince. Yet the feast, Sansa noticed in awe that she did not fear to look even the queen in the eye.

Shae had told her that this Ellaria worshiped some Lysene love goddess. It bewildered Sansa that Shae would feign offense at Ellaria’s association with her when she knew very well that she, too, was a baseborn camp follower of Tyrion. It mattered not to her what southerners did.

“I am honored, Lady Ellaria.” Sansa demurred. The expression seemed appropriate, even if it wasn’t accurate, for the woman, after all, was the prince’s consort.

Ellaria tossed her thick black hair and laughed, the gold bangles tinkling as she shook open her fan. Oberyn shared her mirth, much to her confusion.

Sansa nervously glimpsed between the couple. “Forgive me, have I offended?”

“There is no offense, dearest Lady Sansa, but you must know that I am no lady,” Ellaria whispered conspiratorially behind the fan, her deep eyes twinkling. “I am a bastard. I am not ashamed to say so. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters.”

“Indeed.” Sansa schooled her expression, for the prince was watching her closely. “Forgive me, I do not know how to address you. How do you prefer?”

Prince Oberyn answered, “Ah such is the way you were brought up, Lady Sansa. In Dorne, we do not despise bastards, for they are born of passion.”

“And of war,” Sansa blurted out, the prickliness in her tone unmistakable, “as was the case for my brother Jon. I certainly wish for his sake that the northern culture was as empathetic as in Dorne.  Sadly, the north is hard and cold and has no mercy, as my late lord father was fond of saying.”

“What became of your brother?” Ellaria asked in hesitation.

“My mother sent him away to the Wall when we departed for the capital.” Sansa lowered her gaze sadly.

The prince’s expression softened then. “I am sorry for him too, my lady, and for you as well. It is never easy to lose a beloved father and sibling.”

“I, too, am very sorry, my lady.” Ellaria’s sardonic expression fell.  “And please, call me Ellaria; it is my given name.”

“Thank you,” Sansa dipped her head, the gesture concealing the smug satisfaction she felt in the change in their respective attitudes. She was not the backward, spoiled northern girl they expected her to be and now they knew it. “And you likewise, please, call me Sansa.”

Ellaria smiled.“It is my honor.”

Beside her, Sandor Clegane coughed pointedly.

“It is refreshing to meet people who speak freely,” Sansa took Sandor’s arm once more and pressed herself into him, “I have not experienced such genuineness since I left the north. And sadly, my companions in King’s Landing lack frankness.

“However,” she gestured toward her lord husband (for that was what he was to her now) “in Sandor Clegane I have heard much truth. I have benefitted greatly from his association, limited though it has been until now.”

“How extraordinarily unexpected for a Clegane to behave in such a way. It has been the experience of my family that they are without honor.” Oberyn coldly drawled. "Murderers and rapists, more like."

“No, indeed, it is the truth. She forced her lips to curve into a smile.

Sandor began to shake and Sansa smoothed her hands over his forearm. _You are not your brother, Sandor,_ her mind whispered. Long ago, she overheard Ser Rodrik and her father discussing what transpired between Gregor and Elia. She pulled Sandor’s arm closer to her chest, fearing what would come next.

The Hound squeezed it lightly. Danger radiated off of him, though this time he made no move toward his sword.

“I’m not my brother, Prince Oberyn.” Sandor finally rasped low while rhythmically smoothing his thumb over Sansa’s knuckles. “And I, too, long ago had a sister murdered by Gregor. In this we are alike.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Hound.”Oberyn looked fiercely at Sandor for a moment, then turned his attention back to Sansa. ”Lady Sansa, let us speak frankly: do you wish to continue this farce of a marriage between you and the Hound Clegane?”

 _Is this a trick? Has Tyrion or one of the other lions put him up to asking her this question?_ Panic rose within her.

Sandor’s grip tightened almost painfully.

“It was somewhat of a surprise to us both,” Sansa carefully began, smiling at the man holding her hand, “I am sure you recognize that - ”

 “ - because you don’t have to continue it if you do not wish. I have been made an offer for your hand.”

“You – who would make such an offer?” Sansa couldn’t help herself any longer. She _had_ to know. “Have you spoken to my brother?”

“Lord Hand Lannister made me the offer.” The prince jutted his chin at Sandor.

“On whose behalf?” Sandor snarled. “Lord Tywin has no claim to her hand. Only the king.”

“Think of it as reparations for my sister.” Prince Oberyn smirked at him. "Your brother owes me a fight."

 _Good Mother, could this really be happening?_ Her head reeled so that she could hardly comprehend their words.

“I am flattered, Prince Oberyn but please tell me truly, is it your desire for us to wed?” Sansa disbelievingly turned to Ellaria. “Despite-“

“Our relationship? Lady Sansa, if you agree to the marriage, it will only _enhance_ our arrangement,” the Red Viper went on while Ellaria nodded heartily in agreement.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

“There is no jealousy between us if that is your concern, for Ellaria and I share everything.” Prince Oberyn raised Ellaria's hand to his lips.

“I am curious, too,” Ellaria added with a gentle smile. “We have never had a beautiful woman kissed by fire. You would be a welcome addition to our family, my lady.”

Sandor brought his face inches from the prince’s own. “Sansa is _Lady Clegane_ to you, Prince, and don’t you forget it. Need I remind you what happens when you try to take a bone from a dog?”

Oberyn laughed, though his eyes did not.

“Tell me at once, Lady Sansa and let me put an end to this.”

“While I am very grateful, Prince Oberyn, I must decline. The septon who made the marriage is of the same faith as my mother and I must abide. And though it may surprise you, yes, I do wish to remain married to Sandor Clegane. I believe we will be happy together.”

“As you wish,” he dipped his head to the both of them, laughing to himself as he did so. “But I will still entertain the idea, should you change your mind.”

While holding her firmly to his side, Sandor started forward, but Sansa pulled him back toward her.

 _It isn’t worth the effort. He only wants a fight. Let him go, husband._ Sansa willed him to hear her words and heed them.

The muscles in Sandor’s arm relaxed under her fingers.

“Hold that leash tight, Lady Sansa, for your dog appears to be of a rabid nature. And we know what happens to rabid _dogs_. Come Ellaria, let us taste the delights of King’s Landing, my love.”

“I do hope you change your mind.” Ellaria smiled as she took the prince’s arm. “You would come to love Dorne, and us as well, I am certain of it.”

“Thank you, Prince Oberyn, Ellaria.” Sansa lips pulled into a taut smile. "You were most kind to ask but I cannot accept. Forgive me."

"You are always welcome, my lady." The Red Viper called before turning away.

“Come, Sandor. Let us go to our quarters.” She said as she watched the pair descend the staircase.

 “What in seven hells was that shite?” Sandor bellowed when they were out of earshot.

"I suppose the Lannisters think I am theirs to dispose of as they see fit. And Prince Oberyn means to take  your wife from you and draw your brother into a fight for the honor of your house." The very idea filled her with dread. _If they will marry me off to such a person as the prince, who will be next in line for my hand?_

"Bugger that. Bugger them all." Sandor cursed and gripped her tightly to him. "You belong to you, little bird. No one else, and those who say otherwise will taste my steel."

Surprised, Sansa stared at him.

"So you don’t believe that I belong even you, my husband?"

Sandor stiffened and stopped, facing her. His hand tentatively reached out to her cheek, then recoiled. "Aye. You will be mine only  if you choose it, though I doubt you'd ever willingly bind yourself to an ugly dog like me." Shaking his head, he went on: "I don't give seven shits about that septon and his phony ceremony. Fuck Joffrey. Fuck the Queen. I'll have you as mine if you tell me you desire it, and only if you say you want me as yours."

To her utter astonishment, Sansa discovered in that moment that she _did_ want him as hers; after all, she couldn't ask for a fiercer husband in all the Seven kingdoms. Sandor could be harsh and blunt, but he cared nothing for her claim and always spoke the truth to her. His desire to honor her wishes was unexpected and deeply touched her heart. He even threatened Cersei and Joffrey to keep her safe. She wanted to tell him these things, but she couldn’t voice them just yet; for Sansa feared he would mock her.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and so Sansa peeked up at him from lowered lashes and asked: "Tell me the truth: do _you_ want me as your wife?"

“It isn't my– you weren’t meant for – “ After struggling with his words, Sandor finally spoke. "Aye, little bird. Any man with half a brain would." He sounded tired. “And this thing between us, whatever the fuck it is, being able to hear each other’s thoughts – I never thought such – Seven hells, I don’t know what the fuck to believe anymore.”

The bonding that House Reed divined for the northern noblemen usually secured a couple’s ability to read one another’s thoughts. But Sandor kept no gods; how could she make him understand it?

“I remember that this does happen in the north with bonded couples – many unusual things do.”  Sansa cautiously began as she wrung her hands; then fell into a contemplative silence.

Her mind suddenly turned to the Mormont she-bears who coupled with bears and fought for her brother Robb. The greenseeing crannogman her aunt Lyanna defended, and House Reed’s mysterious castle.

Bran, Arya and Rickon, who all insisted they smelled the Wolfswood through their direwolves in their dreams. Word reached the court that Robb could turn into a giant direwolf. Old Nan told tales of the wargs and skinchangers north of the wall. Then there was the singular, spiritual pain she felt from losing Lady, a pain that plagued her still and one she could not voice.

 _I am a part of it all, and they a part of me_ , Sansa heard her father’s voice say. _I am a part of the north, too, and if it is uncanny, then so am I. And gods help me, so are you._ The realization brought a deep abiding peace to Sansa’s heart, soothing away the worry of the day. Their marriage was the will of the gods; it had to be, for how else could she feel such a thing? But how would she make Sandor understand what she herself could not explain without attribution to the old gods?

Her cheeks flushed hotly. Self-consciously Sansa pressed her hand to her face while her thoughts harkened back to the time her northern background provoked shame in her.

The Baratheon men, equal parts afraid and alarmed at the sight of direwolves in camp on the King’s Road, belittled her and Lady. He had come to her aid then, and Sansa did not wish for Sandor to feel the same shame. No, she longed him to share the pride she felt in her people and her gods.

Her Stark lineage proved to render her fierce and resilient in the face of adversity; Sandor needed to see that in her. She briefly wondered if he already did, for he often called her a wolf. Indeed, despite the tribulation engulfing her family, Sansa had matured, her will ever stronger, and it had not escaped his notice. She was a direwolf, and her blood flowed as red as the sap from the heart tree in the godswood.

Abruptly Sandor cleared his throat, the harsh rasp rousing her from her reverie. “What is it, girl? For fuck’s sake, say something.”

Sansa met his eyes. “I was thinking of the north, and of all the things I miss about it.”

"I don't doubt it." The Hound huffed, though his eyes softened as he regarded her. “It’s a peculiar place. The people are stranger still.”

“There is nothing strange about my home,” Sansa snapped, straightening her back. “We are honest and loyal, qualities that the south is wanting. Oh, never mind. What would you know about it?” She wouldn't waste her words and provide more fodder for his mockery.

"Go on, little bird.” Sandor stared at her expectantly.

“As I was saying, there are many mysterious things associated with the north. Being able to hear the thoughts of your mate - it's, well, I am not familiar with the experience. I do not know if it is only a northern phenomenon. Our maester said very little about it, so I think it must not be common in the south.”

“Is that what you are – my _mate_? Can the wolf and the hound really join together in such a way?” Clegane folded his arms as he leaned against the door frame. His tone lacked the usual sarcasm, and so Sansa decided she would answer him.

“Of course. They are your brothers and mine. And we are husband and wife. That means we are mates now, at least to me it does. What of you? Or is that yet another custom that is different in the south? Can you not feel it?” Her voice broke with tears.

Mirthlessly Sandor shook his head, his eyes flickering over her body. "I _I don't know what I feel. Something."

Shivering, Sansa smoothed the gooseflesh on her arms. “How would you term us?”

“We are mummer’s in the boy king’s bloody farce, little bird,” the Hound spat out. “But never underestimate the old lion.”

“What of Lord Tywin?” Panicked, Sansa dug her nails into his forearm. ”What did he say to you? Please, you must tell me.”

“It was his idea to wed you to the Red Viper, just as the buggering bastard himself said. Tywin claimed didn’t care if the man wanted to share you with his woman or his horse. Wanted me to give you up, the cheeky son of a bitch, but said it had to be willingly offered or the High Septon would never agree to annul it.” Sandor sneered. “I told him no, I’ll not break with the Seven.” He laughed again. "The prince came to collect his prize straight away."

 _Oh good gods above. Lord Tywin - he cannot mean that. Would he really annul our union?_ Sickened _,_ Sansa’s words escaped her. She clutched her stomach, while her head began to spin. “Gods, I think I had too much wine, and the heat – “

The next thing she knew, Sandor caught her in his arms, gripped her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. The heat radiating off his heavily muscled chest nearly overwhelmed her. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than for him to gather her up in his arms.

“Was is it that _you_ want, little bird? Will you chirp your pretty empty words and go to the prince and leave me and King’s Landing behind? Tell me truly and be done with it. Don’t tease me.”

The pain in his eyes nearly took her breath away. “I want to go to our rooms, Sandor,” Sansa's tone was determined and yet her voice quivered as she spoke. “I want you to take me as your wife.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa sensed the wariness in him as she beheld the uncertainties forming in his hardened gaze . It was overwhelming, to have her words met with such spite. Sandor was bracing for whatever tale he thought she would spin.  _He’s searching for the lie._

Anger emanated from his muscled physique, but Sansa remained undeterred. His hand flexed against the hilt of his sword, as though preparing for some unknown battle. Tentatively she reached out to him.

_My poor husband. All you have known is violence and deceit. You’re lost as to how to respond to kindness from a woman._

“Come. I mean my words. Let us celebrate and seal our union before the gods.” Sansa rested her hand on his.

After several terse moments, Sandor removed his gloves and led her by the hand to his quarters. Sansa felt nervous, giddy and anxious. She wondered if he was aware of her own feelings and emotions. But he was as unreadable as ever; Sandor did not look at her, nor did he stop.

He jerked at her arm, not ungently , and pressed her inside his solar.

“What gods would wed us together? What gods would see fit to make us see each other’s thoughts?” Sandor snarled. “What is this shite?!”

“Why, the old gods and the new are the gods who make such bonds.” Sansa’s voice came out breathily . “It is no “shite”, as you say.”

Mirthlessly , Sandor laughed and tossed his head.

“They’ve played quite the jape at your expense, wedding you to one such as me.” He drained his flagon, then filled it and handed it to her. “You relish the thought of fucking a dog so much that you beg for it?”

Anger and insecurity radiated off of him in waves.

“It is the proper way to celebrate our wedded union and Septon Valentine’s Day, I can assure you, ” Sansa grasped onto the back of a nearby chair . “Do you find such objectionable?”

Sniffing, Sandor frowned at her. “Hardly. But you can’t mean that you actually want me to take you into my bed and fuck you.” He gripped her arm. “What game are you playing, you daft little bird?”

“For the last time, I am not playing at anything. And I am not the one acting daft.” A soft buzzing filled her ears, and Sansa struggled to focus on his words. His vulgar language brought forth a rush of warmth to her woman’s place. Unconsciously Sansa squeezed her thighs together.

Sandor’s eyes darted to her own, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he met her gaze.

Heat unfurled throughout her person from the point of his touch, brief though it was. Lustful images intruded into Sansa’s mind. They were laying together in his bed, naked and kissing. Sandor’s hand squeezed her bottom and then moved between her thighs. Deliciously wicked imageries flowed from his mind to her own.

Squirming, Sansa tried to clear her mind. Skin on skin contact somehow allowed her to see and feel his thoughts, not merely hear them. Though knowing it was not proper, Sansa reveled in his desire for her. She felt lightheaded and warm all over.

One of Sandor’s imaginings in particular gripped her. Sandor had pulled her legs over his shoulders while she lay prone on his bed. It was wanton and wicked, and Sansa couldn’t wait for him to try it.

As a lady, though, Sansa knew she had to at least put up a mild protestation. But before she could, his tongue roamed over her slit. Gasping, she wondered how it would feel to have his manhood inside her. Surely , there would be pain but also pleasure. It should be thus between man and wife, there was nothing shameful in it. And she was certain he would be gentle.

“So the little bird is curious, is she? Well, only a fool would deny what you’re offering.” Clegane laughed roughly and forced her to look at him. “Do you take me for such a fool?”

_So he can see my thoughts and feel my emotions._

“No. I am curious about you, about what could be between us as husband and wife. I am not ashamed to admit it.” Her cheeks burned but Sansa held her chin high. “We are wed after all. It is only proper that we should celebrate.”

Sandor yanked her close and pinched her chin between his fingers. His eyes flickered over her lips. He wants me to offer myself.  _He won’t take our first kiss, nor anything else that is not freely given._

Sansa fisted his tunic to prevent him from moving away from her. “We are  _wed_ and  _bonded_. I know you feel the same as I do. So please, put aside this nonsense, Sandor. It is time for our bedding.”

Hoping to end his protests once and for all, Sansa leaned in and brushed her mouth over his. Overwhelming sensations surged through her at the contact, the singularity rendering her breathless.

_Don’t close your eyes_ , his mind whispered,  _look at me and tell me you want me. Don’t play games with me, girl._  Clegane’s mind vacillated from fear, insecurity, yearning, and above it all, want. Unable to withstand the onslaught, Sansa pulled away, then swayed on her feet.

“Little bird, what is it?” Clegane’s eyes snapped open. His anger receded into the recesses of his mind, while concern rushed into the forefront. “Are you ill?” Sandor knelt before her, his large hands spanning her waist as he steadied her. “Speak, girl.”

“No.” Sansa finally found her voice; as his fury abated, so did her pain. “I am not ill." 

“Is it your moonblood?"

“For the sake of the Seven!” Sansa huffed out. “No, it isn’t that.” Seeking to balance herself, she reached to hold his arm. “I’m merely overcome with the emotions I sense from you as well as my own. Can you not  _feel_  it?”

“I’ve got you, girl.” Sandor bent down and lifted her to her feet, his eyes drifting to her neckline before darting away.

“It’s so overpowering, sharing your anger, your dark mood, your doubt. It’s almost painful.” Sansa shook her head. “I have never felt the likes of it.”

“A pretty little bird like you has tasted the cruelties of this world, girl. I don’t wish you to experience it to the degree that I have, regardless of the will of your so-called gods. I don’t mean to hurt you, girl, bond or no.” Clegane ran his fingers back through his hair. “You’re like to feel it often, though, for I am angry most of the time.”

“I know.” Sansa shook her head. “But I want to help ease your suffering.” Somehow, she just knew that if they united in body as well as mind, their bond would be permanent. In this way, she would be able to comfort and soothe the darkness within him. He would be able to help her too, though Sansa didn't properly understand how it would take place.

 Sandor snorted, and Sansa wondered if he read her thoughts then.

“I will not be dissuaded , Sandor. I mean my words.” Sansa straightened her back. “And you may not like sharing my feelings, either.”

"Doubtful, that.” Sandor’s eyes lingered on her mouth. "You're sweet and good, girl."

_He’s going to kiss me again._  Shyly Sansa raised her fingers to his face.

“You're flushed, Sansa,” he rasped against her lips, breathing heavily . “Still thinking of the Dornish prince?” He was teasing her, she felt it.

The deep rasp of his voice saying her name brought a quiver of delight through her.

“You  _know_  that I am not.” Sansa drew him in once more. “Will you not kiss me?”

Shame poured off of him, and to Sansa’s satisfaction, he had the decency to dip his head.

“The heat of the day has addled you.” He rasped low as he caressed her jawline.

“I am not addled." Sansa tried to steady herself. Indeed, the powerfulness of his body and the bond between them sent a warm current through her body.

Vaguely Sansa became aware of Sandor lifting her into his arms. Next she was floating on a cloud, sinking deep into the feather bed. A ripping noise followed, and then cool air washed over her skin. Her gown was being pulled out from under her. "What happened?" Sansa murmured. "What are you doing?" A cold damp cloth pressed against her forehead and chest.

"Shh, easy, little wife." Sandor chuckled. “You fainted, that’s all.”

“I did not.” Sansa squirmed beneath his touch and opened her eyes. “Ladies don’t faint.”

“They do if they’re trussed up like a Sevenmas goose, as you were a moment ago.” 

Warm fingers trailed between her breasts down to her belly. Sansa trembled with pleasure.

“Frightened that the Hound is touching you?” Sandor refused to meet her eyes, his own gaze instead followed his finger light touch over her skin.

“A person with any sense would have a healthy respect for your many abilities, Sandor Clegane." Sansa touched the hand that rested on her chest above her breasts. "But no, I am not afraid of you touching me. We are  _wed_. We  are  _bonded_.”

He smirked. “Did this ever happen in the north? You feeling other’s emotions and swooning and such shite?”

“Come to think of it, no, it didn’t, at least not to me.” Sansa smiled at him. “But a great many things never happened to me in the north."

"Aye, true enough, that." He grinned.

"It started today with you." _It started when your skin met mine. Did you feel it?_  "How did you know?”

“I felt – something, within you. I thought it was fear but now, I’m not sure.”

“Are you going to call the maester?” Sansa winced.

“Not Pycelle. Never him." Sandor spat out and withdrew his hand. Sansa shivered at the loss of his touch. "He lays a hand on you and he’ll lose it.”

“Maester Pycelle wouldn’t have any knowledge of this condition,“ Sansa chose her words carefully. “My maester at Winterfell might know of it, though. I have heard it spoken that my Aunt Lyanna could sense the emotions of others. Perhaps it truly is a northern trait.”  _I wish we could leave this place. I wish Maester Luwin could tell us what is happening, and if this is what affected my aunt Lyanna._

 No more had Sansa finished her thought than Sandor nodded in agreement. 

"I doubt your old maester survived the Greyjoy brat, little bird. But mayhap we could find someone up there would know of it.”

Sansa’s heart sank at the thought. “Yes, I am sure you are right. The Mormont’s maester, then. The ladies there turn into bears.”

“Aye,” Sandor absently sighed, gritted his teeth and ran his hands through his hair. His apprehension melted into fear.

Folding her hands, Sansa waited for him to speak.

“But why would you want to take such a chance? Why stay with a dog?” Sandor spat out after a moment. “We likely will never make for the north. You had your chance to leave here, marry a pretty Dornish prince and live in a castle just as you’ve always wanted.”

“Prince Oberyn only meant to use me as a bedmate, no different than so many of the other high lords at court. Yet another plaything for he and his paramour.” Sansa curled her lip in disgust. “He had no intention of accepting me as repayment for Elia, as if such a thing where even possible. Such an affront to the prince! He will still seek his revenge, of that I am certain.”

“What man wouldn’t?” Sandor spat out. “You can’t buy blood. And only Gregor’s will pay for the life of our sister, believe that.”

“He killed your sister?” Aghast, Sansa reached for him. Her gown gaped, revealing her breasts but Sansa remained unbothered by her exposed state. Sandor needed her, and the only impulse she could obey was to comfort him.

“Aye.” Sandor let his hair fall over his face. "And burned my face. But you knew that."

The anguish rolling through the man drew a gasp from her throat. Sandor turned toward her.

Trembling, Sansa laid her hand on Sandor’s arm. “I am sorry, truly .. I wish I knew the words that would comfort you, but alas, I do not...for nothing eases grief.”

Sandor shrugged and stood. “I fear Lord Tywin will want to make the next match for you. Gods knows who the next prick will be.”

“I won’t have it,” Sansa raised up on her knees and put her arms around his waist. “Only you. Our marriage needs consummation so that it is binding in the eyes of the high septon and the lords. And I wish to with you.”

Clegane seemed a little upset by her outburst. Settling on the edge of the bed, he drew her into his embrace. The feel of his powerful arms around her was calming to the both of them, and they both sighed at the pleasure of it.

“Silly little bird.” He whispered into her hair.

“Sandor, I meant my words. I wish to give myself to you. I sense that it will solidify our bonding in some way.”

Clegane heaved out a deep groan. “Why me, though, girl? Why give yourself to me, of all people? You haven’t answered me yet.”

“You have given me a choice, and that is something that is precious and rare to me. The Lannisters will take me from you and move me around like a piece on a cyvasse board so long as I have my maiden’s gift. They expect me to bend to their will without a thought to my own wants and needs.” Sansa took his face in her hands. “I do want you, Sandor. I know you can feel my  _want_  for you.”

 It was Sandor’s turn to shiver then. Resigned, he settled her back onto the bed and lay beside her. And Sansa couldn't wait to see what would happen next.


End file.
